


the holy or the broken

by Muppet47



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 23:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4498662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muppet47/pseuds/Muppet47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He folds to the floor of the foundry and sprawls among the wreckage of his fit, the heels of his hands digging into his eye sockets as if he can hold it in, this…not rage…not jealousy…this…</p>
<p>This heartbreak."</p>
<p>Episode insert/AU for episode 3:07, if Roy hadn’t been in the foundry when Oliver got back from QC after seeing Ray and Felicity together. Angsty angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the holy or the broken

Oliver doesn’t know how to do this.

He folds to the floor of the foundry and sprawls among the wreckage of his fit, the heels of his hands digging into his eye sockets as if he can hold it in, this…not rage…not jealousy…this…

This heartbreak.

And, _Jesus_ , it is. It’s like his actual fucking heart is broken, reduced to jagged shards that stab his chest with every breath he takes.

He needs to get up. He needs to get up and clean up the mess and just generally get it the fuck together enough to pretend that he isn’t afraid he might actually die if he doesn’t get the picture of Felicity kissing Ray Palmer out of his head.

He pulls in a shallow breath and tries to blank his mind, but the awful image plays on a loop. Felicity, her mouth on Palmer’s, up on her toes because that bastard is apparently seven fucking feet tall. Up on her toes kissing him back, like she wants to. Like she means it.

God. Oliver touches his forehead to his knees as his stomach flips and threatens to fling itself up his throat. It’s his fault, he knows this. Felicity is doing nothing wrong, and this is no less than he deserves. Oliver wants her to be happy, he does, but for some incomprehensible reason he thought he would be able to handle this.

Well, no. Oliver never thought about handling _this_. He’d thought about working with Felicity every night without being able to touch her, and about never being alone with her because he knows that he’s only so strong. He’d considered every aspect of what it was going to be like to miss her while she was right there in front of him, and Oliver had honestly believed he could deal with it, that it was worth it to keep her safe. Worth it so that he wouldn’t one day wake up in a world without Felicity Smoak, because that was truly the one thing he would never be able to handle.

Stupidly - selfishly - Oliver had never once considered that he might lose her just as completely to someone else.

And he knows that makes him self-centered, or maybe just a total asshole, because why wouldn’t Felicity move on? Oliver shoved her away with both hands, what exactly did he think was going to happen? That she would ignore all other men forever?

Oliver hates to admit it, but he was thrown by Felicity’s ex-boyfriend. Cooper. A fucking stupid name. Just thinking about what he’d done to Felicity, how she’d loved and trusted him, and how he’d betrayed and hurt her, makes Oliver insane. He seriously can’t remember the last time he wanted to make someone bleed so badly, and in his line of work that’s saying a lot. Oliver hates him.

The irony is not lost on Oliver that he, too, has hurt Felicity over and over. But Oliver already hates himself. So.

He throws his head back, casting his eyes around the lair, desperate for a distraction, something in his head that isn’t Felicity in someone else’s arms. His gaze falls on the fern. So incongruously bright and alive in this dark space. Just like Felicity.

”Dude, is that a love fern?” Roy had asked when he’d first seen it, incredulous. Oliver doesn’t have any idea what Roy was talking about, but somehow the stupid fern does make him ache. Makes him remember the time - was it only weeks ago? - when life seemed hopeful, and Felicity might actually love him back.

Oliver takes a deep breath and tries to think about anything else. It’s not working. Now, instead of Felicity with Palmer, Oliver sees her in that hospital corridor right before he kissed her that one and only time, her eyes damp, her face full of heartbreak. Oliver’s flooded with the visceral memory of the silk of her hair in his palms, the heat of her mouth on his. He’d kissed her because he didn’t know how not to, because hearing her say he didn’t love her squeezed his chest until he couldn’t breathe. When his lips touched hers, she’d sighed into his mouth and the panic had ceased, just for a moment. It had been a split second of everything he’d ever wanted and couldn’t have. Then she pulled away, leaving his hands empty and his heart an aching hole.

Suddenly the vision morphs into Felicity spread out on the steel table after the restaurant explosion, battered and bloody. It’s like ice water, clearing his head, reminding Oliver why he’s doing this.

He’s toxic. He can’t ever be with Felicity, but at least she isn’t dead. Oliver slowly folds in half, his forehead against his knees. Seeing Felicity with another man is killing him, but it’s worth it. He just needs a few minutes to remember that.

Suddenly the door above him opens and slams shut, followed by the click of heels on the stairs that can’t - _can’t_ \- be Felicity.

“Oliver?”

Shit, except impossibly it _is_ , like his desperate longing has conjured her out of thin air and deposited her halfway down the foundry steps, stunning in a blue dress with her hair twisted up and her lips swollen from kissing another man.

Oliver jerks himself to his feet, adrenaline hitting him as hard as it ever has on the streets, and tries to plaster a look on his face that isn’t pathetically heartbroken.

“Felicity. Hi.” He manages to get that out in a voice that’s almost normal, like he isn’t alone in the lair surrounded by the trash of his temper tantrum. He tries to unobtrusively swipe at his damp eyes.

Felicity’s frozen on the stairs, her eyes fixed on him like the proverbial deer in headlights.

“I…um…sorry. I didn’t think…” She swallows, and Oliver’s almost hypnotized by the slow ripple of her throat. “I thought everyone would be…” She trails off, her gaze suddenly focused on the destruction spread out at his feet. Her eyes dart to his face. “Oh my God, what happened? Are you okay?”

Oliver just nods, not trusting himself to lie to her face and say he’s fine, not when he’s the absolute opposite of fine and also has never successfully lied to Felicity in his life.

And hasn’t this time, apparently.

“Oliver!” Felicity barks, clattering the rest of the way down the stairs to stand in front of him. Her lipstick’s a little smeared, and Oliver thinks he might throw up at her feet. He sucks in a breath, bracing himself.

“What happened?” she asks again. She takes another step, her body rocking toward him before she abruptly pulls herself back. Her eyes are fixed on his face, sharp and concerned. ”Are you hurt?”

Oliver barely manages not to laugh out loud. Is he _hurt_? Yes. _Yes_ he’s hurt, he’s fucking devastated, like his chest has been ripped opened, his heart beat raw and exposed.

“No,” he says instead, not quite managing eye contact. “I’m fine, I just…um…tripped.” Which, holy shit, that’s worse than that scavenger hunt story he told her once. Five years of torturously learning to control his body is the only thing that keeps him from wincing at his own breathtaking dumbness.

“You tripped,” Felicity deadpans, the very tone of her voice calling him out on the lie. Oliver flashes back to laptops with bullet holes, and sports bottles, and every other time she’s refused to take his bullshit, and oh God, how is he going to do this? Be without her?

“I’m sorry,” he says inanely, and Oliver isn’t sure if he’s apologizing for the obvious lie, the mess in the foundry, or the mess he’s made of them.

“What’s wrong?” Felicity asks, a little more frantic now. Probably because he’s making no sense, but he can’t think, can’t stand in front of her and make up some plausible reason for the broken glass and his red eyes and his broken heart.

Now Felicity steps into his space, her hand on his arm, the contact not so much like a spark as it is a whole surge of feeling that flips his stomach and twists his chest. It short circuits his brain with helpless, hopeless longing, which is his only possible excuse for what happens next.

“I was at QC tonight,” Oliver hears himself say, like a confession. And oh, no no no, what is he doing?

Felicity eyes go wide, her breath catching.

“You saw me,” she says, and it’s not a question. Her fingers are tight on his forearm. “You saw me with Ray, and you came here and…did this?”

“Yes.” No. Stop talking.

A beat of silence, and then.

“Why?”

Felicity’s brow is furrowed, her voice soft, and she sounds so honestly bewildered that Oliver can’t stand it.

“Because _I love you_.” Oliver bites out, beyond desperate. She has to believe him. He can’t do this if she really doesn’t know. “You have to understand that.”

Felicity is suddenly very, very still. “I understand that this is the situation you wanted. I understand that you told me you couldn’t be with me.”

“Yes. No, I mean, I can’t be with you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, I…”

“I don’t think love means what you think it means, Oliver.” Her hand drops from his arm as Felicity visibly deflates before his eyes. She shakes her head and backs up a step.

“What?” Oliver moves back into her space and she takes another step back. Panic pushes at him, sharp and hot.

“Your definition of love is different than mine.” Felicity clarifies, the look on her face making his breath stutter in his chest. She doesn’t…she thinks…

“I want you to be happy,” Oliver starts, frantic to explain.

“No, you want not to be afraid,” Felicity interrupts. “You want not to lose me, and have decided the best way to accomplish that is to never have me at all.”

The words sting, like a well-deserved slap to the face. “No, I _do_ want you to be happy.” Oliver clenches his fists so he won’t touch her. “I just wish the one making you happy could be me.”

Felicity’s face crumples, a study in heartbreak and, oh God, disappointment. Shit, shit. Thirty minutes ago Oliver would have said there was nothing worse than watching Felicity with Palmer, but he would have been wrong. The worst is this right here, the look on her face that says he’s let her down.

“You’re being so stupid, Oliver.” Felicity’s voice is twisted sideways like she’s trying not cry. “And this is so unfair.”

Oliver feels sick. “I know, I’m sorry…”

Felicity’s shaking her head. “Your sorry doesn’t change anything.” And then she’s walking away, her back to him, and Oliver is so overwhelmed with helpless panic that for the first time he thinks that maybe he can’t do this, can’t let her go.

That maybe he shouldn’t.

“Felicity,” he calls after her. He has no plan, no thought beyond keeping her from walking out the door.

“There’s nothing to say, Oliver.”

“I love you,” Oliver says again anyway. Recklessly. Selfishly, like it’s the only thing that matters.

“Not enough,” Felicity answers without turning around, and the door clangs shut behind her.

 

* * *

 

 

An hour later, Oliver finds himself outside her apartment door.

He shouldn’t be here. There’s nothing left to say. Or there’s everything to say, he just can’t - shouldn’t - say it.

Except maybe he should. He doesn’t know anymore.

He knocks on the door anyway, and dies a little until Felicity answers, her eyes going wide at the sight of him. They’re swollen and red-rimmed, and his gut twists, hard and tight.

“Oliver.” She sounds exhausted. “What are you doing here?”

Oliver freezes. Everything he’s said before has been wrong. The seconds tick by as he stares at her, his mind blank.

Felicity sighs, like she just can’t deal with him. “Goodnight, Oliver.”

She moves to shut the door and Oliver panics so hard he doesn’t even know what he’s saying.

“I’m going to disappoint you,” he blurts out, his heart slamming against his chest like a caged thing. “I’m going to let you down. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Everything stills. Now it’s Felicity who’s silent, her eyes damp, her chest rising in rapid little breaths, like she’s trying not to cry. Oliver doesn’t move, and he knows that in the last seven years there has to have been a moment when he felt worse than this, but he can’t remember when.

“You’ve already disappointed me,” Felicity finally says, but she pulls the door open with shaking hands, and steps aside to let him in.


End file.
